Poems (Pizey)/On Death
For works with similar titles, see On Death.
TO DEATH.
O Death! inveterate spoiler, why didst thou not aim
Thy fatal weapon at this cheerless aching breast,
When thou didst seize on all the treasure of my heart?
Oh! thou art doubly cruel thus to spare my life,
When thou hast wrested from me that which made it dear.
Here is thy victory; it is not in that grave;
Ah, no; 'tis I that am the victim of thy pow'r;
That angel form on which thou'st laid thy chilly hand
Feels it not, for the sainted spirit soars aloft
To join its pure and kindred beings of the sky.
My wounded heart alone can tell how cold it is,
For it has stopp'd the current of my happiness,
And bound in icy fetters each sweet spring of joy.
Alas! no summer sun shall e'er unloose them now,
For that enliv'ning smile which once did bid them flow
Will beam no more: no, that sweet sun has set on earth,
And risen in brighter worlds to gild a fairer day.
Thy fatal weapon at this cheerless aching breast,
When thou didst seize on all the treasure of my heart?
Oh! thou art doubly cruel thus to spare my life,
When thou hast wrested from me that which made it dear.
Here is thy victory; it is not in that grave;
Ah, no; 'tis I that am the victim of thy pow'r;
That angel form on which thou'st laid thy chilly hand
Feels it not, for the sainted spirit soars aloft
To join its pure and kindred beings of the sky.
My wounded heart alone can tell how cold it is,
For it has stopp'd the current of my happiness,
And bound in icy fetters each sweet spring of joy.
Alas! no summer sun shall e'er unloose them now,
For that enliv'ning smile which once did bid them flow
Will beam no more: no, that sweet sun has set on earth,
And risen in brighter worlds to gild a fairer day.